


I Wanna See You Bright

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Series: Born to Make (Art) History - Promo Telephone Game [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ...Also As Always, Ambiguously Sexy Ending, Astronomy References, Dommi Back on her Tanabata Bullshit, Lyrical prose, M/M, Mythological References, Stream of Consciousness, Victor is a Smitten Dingus, Yuuri is Criminally Hot, art history references, as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: Victor would build Yuuri a temple, he would commission a song, he would fill a gallery with portraiture of this man if only to prove his magnificence to the world. He swings from the starlight with their hands connected, moving from baroque frames dripping in gold to winged Eros visiting Psyche in the dark of night. Victor sees Yuuri with his heart and mind above his eyes, and he traces Yuuri’s tympanic membrane with his dry lips.Yuuri sighs and pushes with one hand and as Victor rolls onto his back, he opens his eyes to see Yuuri bathed in iridescent glimmer like a clear, polished moonstone. Yuuri sits across Victor’s waist, though not hard enough to steal his breath.Then again, Yuuri steals his breath with just a smile.(For the Born to Make (Art) History Zine Promotional Telephone Game.)





	I Wanna See You Bright

Yuuri always moves like poetry, like the shifting of mercury in a vessel back and forth as it turns in a man’s open palm. His body drifts like beats and meter, the swaying of his hips in Iambic pentameter,  _ have at you now, affection’s men-at-arms  _ delivered with unfailing purpose and unending grace as he moves.

The first time Victor meets his eyes, captured so thoroughly due to a little light music and a lot of  _ cuvée de prestige _ , he finds he cannot think beyond cataloguing their color.

Amber? They’re too rich.

Mahogany? They’re too vibrant.

Gray? They’re too warm.

Yuuri’s stare is magnetic, his touch an impossible fire that renders Victor to a vividly white ash, and swirling in his arms feels as though he trips the light fantastic, their steps crossing from floor to ground to air to firmament and beyond. A  _ paso doble _ through Orion, a waltz spanning the circumference of the crystalline moon, a foxtrot through a shimmering violet nebula—

In his former life (denoted BY for  _ Before Yuuri _ ) Victor saw the world in black and white, like a vintage film marathon on those artistic channels everyone subscribes to that no one actually watches. He heard static and saw plain black screens with a white font spelling the dialogue of his interactions day-to-day.  

_ What will you do next season? _ appears in front of his eyes to a dramatic piano riff.

_ I’m considering my options,  _ he’d mouth in sepia tones before it appears in typography a moment later, allowing his audience to follow, follow,  _ follow _ , even though he drove his black rose metallic Stingray at 160 km per hour down the Road to Nowhere.  Victor stumbled but righted his gait every time, an illusion and a pretense like an inverted-Gene Wilder faking a limp to child actors, transforming them into instant skeptics for the rest of filming.

The  _ BY _ period meant coasting, getting by, a cage of sharpened, gilded ice.  _ Aprés-Yuuri _ means soaring through the sky in three-fourths time with music of their own making. It means color seeping into his gaze starting at the edge of his vision, exploding like supernovas and comets, like the Perseids shower at its peak during Tanabata, Victor having crossed the sea and a bridge made of magpies. All of the light in the aether he consumes like a glutton or a starving child given keys to a full and exquisite larder.

Skating and the sky, the music, the energy, the vividness of light long-escaped from celestial bodies…everything carries him to Yuuri. Everything that exists — aromas, light, metals — are little boats that sail towards the isles of Yuuri that wait for him.

Yuuri is shimmer in moonlight and shadow. Yuuri is bright like the golden sun. If Victor is reborn from the heart and roots of Yggdrasil then it is for this here and now, waking in a hotel with silk ribbon and sterling silver by the bed as he traces the lines of Yuuri’s cheekbone with the tip of his index finger and both eyes closed. The starlight dances behind his eyes, a vision of Yuuri in swirls of color made by Van Gogh against a canvas of lapis lazuli.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri wonders after a few minutes, his voice thick and soft with sleep.

“Memorizing you,” Victor answers. He traces the curve of his shoulder, the angle of his collarbones. He’d have undoubtedly been Da Vinci’s Muse with the way his spine arcs during choreographic sequences. Perfection made flesh, an immaculate being carved from marble, a heavenly body that somehow descended from his astral home, choosing to set Victor free out of everyone in the world.

“You should probably look at me then,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t move, though Victor can hear his jaw pop from a gaping yawn. “Or your photos on your phone. You’ve taken enough of them, I think.”

Victor doesn’t really answer as his hand skims the worn flannel over Yuuri’s hip. Maybe it’s not too old fashioned to commission a portrait; a private, risqué piece for his eyes only of Yuuri in white linen and silk ribbons. A classical work historians will find one day and assume that Yuuri is some figure from literature and myth, a god at whose altar Victor genuflects in awe and supplication.

Perhaps Yuuri should wear nothing at all but an antique collier of Bohemian garnets and a smile.

Victor’s lips twitch at the vision.

Yuuri snorts, an ugly sound that to Victor is as clear as Debussy’s life’s work. Victor speaks three and two-thirds languages (refining his Japanese is a touch slow-going), and all of them lack the words, the meaning for what he wants to convey, how instead of a red string knotted on their pinkies he feels their souls are bound by a wide silk ribbon with blue and white below the red, draped around their necks, hanging over hearts that beat as one.

Victor would build Yuuri a temple, he would commission a song, he would fill a gallery with portraiture of this man if only to prove his magnificence to the world. He swings from the starlight with their hands connected, moving from baroque frames dripping in gold to winged Eros visiting Psyche in the dark of night. Victor sees Yuuri with his heart and mind above his eyes, and he traces Yuuri’s tympanic membrane with his dry lips.

Yuuri sighs and pushes with one hand and as Victor rolls onto his back, he opens his eyes to see Yuuri bathed in iridescent glimmer like a clear, polished moonstone. Yuuri sits across Victor’s waist, though not hard enough to steal his breath.

Then again, Yuuri steals his breath with just a smile.

What if Yuuri actually is a star-child, Victor ponders as Yuuri playfully leans down and rubs their noses together. What if Yuuri was a prince chained to a throne in the heavens by a jealous, less-beautiful god, and his release came from devotion, from Victor’s love burning more visibly than a lodestar?

Heavenly light fills Yuuri’s eyes as Victor takes him in. It’s as if this has happened before, as if it’s been done a million times through every age and period. There’s a mirror in Yuuri’s left hand with a palm leaf in his right, and Victor climbs and cracks the firmament to undo his shackles, bringing him home by his side. Victor is the king reborn of his own ashes and Yuuri the consort whose beauty inspires jealous rage and torment by the divine themselves.

A work of art pops into Victor’s mind: classical, possibly Grecian, of a king draped in gold and crimson with pale hair, and his lover draped in the stars with hair like the darkened sky at dusk. His eyes widen as Yuuri bends to kiss his lips, slowly, gently, hotly.

Victor’s eyes widen as Yuuri’s slide shut.

Surely it couldn’t be… _ could it? _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The art that ties into my work, by the incomparable roadhouss, will be linked shortly. 
> 
> Our theme was "starry night." The piece's title is from ZAYN's "BRIGHT." 
> 
> Did I aggressively make Victor think of Yuuri as Cassiopeia? 
> 
> ....Maybe. You don't know my life. (You do though. You definitely do.) 
> 
> There's a bit of vague soulmate/reincarnation at the end also.
> 
> I'd never done a telephone game before, so this was super fun! Follow along in the series for all of the beautiful, incredible works!


End file.
